Do What, Darling?
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: Blaise Zabini has been watching his mother lay traps for men throughout his life, using her beauty and status to gain power. He knows that something isn't quite right, but does he believe the rumours about her are true?


**Ravenclaw, Head of House, Themed (HoH Additional), Prompt: Blaise Zabini, WC: 2066**

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My mother is one of those curiously miraculous people who can turn on the charm as though it is a switch inside her head. As though her entire personality rests in the balance, and anything can tip it in one direction. She has that ability, and that ability is what allows her so much control over others. I see it happening all the time, being as close to her as I am.

She asks me to hold onto her arm as we walk into the glittering room, dressed in our finest robes. Already she is like a viper, looking for fresh prey to hunt. My sixth step father passed away a month ago, leaving room for a different man in her life. The grieving period has ended, and it is time for her to move on; she's on the prowl for new blood. And I am stuck with her.

"Delphi, a pleasure as always," Demetri Malkolov greets us, the host for the evening. Beside him, a tall blonde woman passes us two flutes of champagne. Already the power-hungry have come out to play. I see it in the blonde's narrowed eyes, watching the pair of us, waiting for her opportunity to shine and show the world that she can be more than a waitress. She must be Demetri's new side dish, determined to outlive his wife and take his money, willing to play the long-game.

"Delighted to see you, Demetri," my mother replies, kissing him swiftly on both cheeks. He blushes accordingly and coughs. "I'm looking forward to the presentation."

With that, and a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes from Demetri, we disappear into the crowd.

The alcohol slides easily down my throat, bubbling, cold, and an excellent momentary distraction for my head. Heart pounding, feet hurting in the too-tight shoes, and hot in the crowded room, my mother drags us towards the drinks, already having downed her glass of champagne. I set my own glass down, her sober companion as usual. Not that she is out of control, but it's always better for me to drink water in these situations. Until I can't cope, anyway.

Gold swims before my eyes, excessive wealth displayed in the most ostentatious fashion. And wealth is power. By putting on these ridiculous charity events, they send minimal amounts to relatively good causes, and spend the rest of the money on another event in three months' time.

Not that I don't enjoy money, but I would much rather my mother earn it than gaining from her dead husbands. She fattens these men up with false love, marries them, and then… Then they die, leaving her all of their possessions; wealth, mansions, antiques, and collectable items. Family heirlooms worth thousands. Paintings worth millions. An estate in Yorkshire worth billions.

And all for what?

Power. The ability to keep doing the things that she believes her pretty face allows her to do.

I often wonder whether the rumours are true. Does she really kill them? Would she be so needy and desperate for the money and the status that she would kill off innocent men? How could she think she has the right to do that?

"Blaise, darling, will you fetch me another drink?"

"Of course, mother."

My mother never waits at the corner of the room for me, she will engage herself in conversation as quickly as possible. It's easy for her, socially glowing, to drop into any conversation with a warm laugh and something humorous to say. Unfortunately, I can't do that. I find comfort in people I know and I trust hardly anyone outside of that particular Slytherin friendship group. Across the room stands Draco and Pansy, talking politely with Pansy's father. Presumably Draco is repeatedly rejecting the offers of betrothal, in innumerable different ways. I'll go over shortly.

When I return, there is a man talking to her, that familiar glint in his eyes. He's watching her movements, her glittering jewellery, her precise hairstyle, the slick silk gown that moves as though it is a second skin. Silver-haired, a perfectly tailored suit, he must be her new target.

"Mother," I interject, holding out the glass of champagne. She takes it, not moving her eyes from the man in front of her.

"Thank you. Blaise, darling, this is Mr Smithson. He was just telling me about his large contribution this evening. He's a very charitable man, darling." She smiled at him. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"Yes, mother. Pleasure to meet you Mr Smithson. You'll have to excuse me, I'm going to find Draco."

She kisses me on the cheek, and sips at her champagne, already laughing sweetly at Mr Smithson's next comment as I turn to mist in front of her eyes. I whirl across the room, looking for a bathroom as some semblance of escape. Of course, the door is heavy, polished wood, and the room itself is decorated as though painted with liquid gold. The opulence of it is astounding, and utterly ridiculous. Instantly, I loathe it.

Quickly, acting, I go about my business, and take a little too long washing my hands and staring at my ashen face in the mirror. After this, I ought to speak to my friends. And yet, I know they will possess the exact same disposition as my mother does – always after something more in their mundane lives, hoping to impress in order to gain, and empowering only themselves in the process. All they want is something more, but maybe I want a little less? Something more meaningful?

Merlin knows what my mother would say if she could hear my thoughts.

The evening is long and arduous. I spend some of my time with my friends, Draco and Pansy, Theo joining us a little later in the evening, looking harassed. We don't ask, knowing that it has something to do with his father, who drinks in a corner by himself, waiting for interested parties to address him rather than the other way around. It obviously doesn't work, as he stands at the very back of room during the auction and bidding later on.

My mother clings to Mr Smithson for the entirety of the event, allowing him to even place a lingering kiss on her cheek as we leave for the night. She's not drunk, calculating her next move with him. I know this because she asks me when we should invite him round for dinner, or when we could attempt the theatre with him, in a vague wish to be more cultured as a duo.

I don't bother answering, because she will just answer herself, or ignore me. And I'm okay with that. It's impossible to talk about all of this with her, thus there is no point me providing any input whatsoever to the goings on in our lives. She argues that it is her house, her money, her life.

I am simply one of her acquisitions from one of her many husbands.

Not as much of an investment as some of the family heirlooms, however.

She asks me to play the piano when we return home. Tired, frustrated, I play something I've been working on – a new composition. It sounds stressed, a little too staccato for the golden glow of the evening, and she doesn't like it. I'm told to go to bed immediately, which I do. There is no point doing anything else but wait for another day to claim me.

Days and weeks begin to blur together. Mr Smithson's presence surrounds the both of us, suddenly there more frequently than I am in my preparations to go back to Hogwarts for my fifth year. Books bought, case packed, my mother leaves a note on what the time the driver will collect me in the morning, having gone to spend the night with Mr Smithson. She won't return until after I have left for the school year and leaves her deepest apologies.

As their relationship grows, her owls become fewer and further between. At Christmas dinner, she announces that they are engaged to be married by Easter. The wedding is an extravagant affair, all white and gold, shimmering chandeliers decorated in bright silk ribbons and silvery diamonds. I walk her down the aisle, handing my mother over to the seventh man.

I wonder how he will die this time, in the back corners of my mind.

On the train to Hogwarts for my sixth year, Draco teases me. I act nonchalant, laughing politely at the rumours, but hating him in that moment all the same. His father is no better, rising through the ranks of the Ministry in order to gain power after the fall of the Dark Lord. Betrayal is in the pureblood nature, it seems. Betrayal to wizarding kind, and betrayal to our friends. It is in our nature to go after what we want, ambition in our veins.

My mother doesn't associate with the Dark Lord, despite her friends' husbands being advocates for the dark arts and the power that lies within them. She would much rather have wealth and be able to buy her way out of a situation rather than using the minimal magic that she possesses. Power is status. Status is the secret pass out of Azkaban.

When I return over the Christmas break, it's clear that she has been treated by him. There are additions in the house, some new and some from his own home. She fools him with warmth and beautiful smiles. She dresses well, addresses him well, and slinks around the place with loving eyes. I see right past it, though. I know her game by now, and I wonder how long she will let him think that she is in love with him before something goes dreadfully wrong and the Zabini family suffers yet another loss. Not long, I think. She fetches him firewhiskey in the evenings and lays in bed with him in the mornings, and the charade stretches on.

I sit at the piano, waiting for something different to come to my mind than the staccato, broken, piece I had in my mind a year and a half ago. But there is nothing else there.

My life has never been exactly smooth sailing, even with the wealth. Personally, I don't think that money or power solves any of the primary issues. I don't think neither wealth nor power are a solution to anything that comes from within. As utterly ludicrous as that sounds.

When I aim to return over Easter, Smithson has been taken ill, and my mother requests I stay at Hogwarts for the holidays.

A year passes, his conditions worsen and I hardly see him over the summer, locked away in their bedroom for the time being. Again, I am told not to remain at school for the festivities.

The War allows me to finally go home, and I don't intend to fight in the Battle of Hogwarts like my fellow Slytherins. Unlike them, we don't belong on a particular side, choosing to instead sit roughly in the middle, associating with neither dark or light. Given the choice, I would stand with my friends because they are my friends, but not because they are fighting to retain their status. I wouldn't fight for the life I am currently living, because I don't want this life anymore. I don't want the power that comes with being a Zabini. I don't want the Slug Club, or the fancy dinners, or the money, or the endless commentary about how my mother is worse than every Death Eater out there. She eats men like they are the next course on the menu, swallowing them whole like a snake, and spitting out the gold to spend.

By the time I reach our house, he is on his deathbed. Beside him, my mother is crying into a silk handkerchief, holding on his hand as the colour leaves his face.

I'm caught, a rabbit in the wand-light.

Could it be true? Could she be the killer?

As I watch her there, I see the despair on his face, and know that Smithson sees it too. It satisfies him. He promises her the world and more.

"Did you do it?" I ask, hours later, the dead meat of his body taken away.

"Do what, darling?" my mother parries, crossed legs, face calm, sitting in front of the fire.

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 **Thank you for reading!**


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